


Rescue

by MissFeya



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:12:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFeya/pseuds/MissFeya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although I totally adored how Season 3 and the rest unfolded, this is how I imagined the post-"Other Side" events. Rated Mature for future chapter sexytimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Split

**Author's Note:**

> Since I wrote this during Season 3 it's obviously been awhile. But I enjoy the chance to put this on an additional site and get more eyeballs on it. Reviews, critiques, etc. are all good.

Peter walked behind her down a very long hallway. Massive Dynamic lived up to its name, and his hands that had never shaken before all of this, not even in Iraq, tremored against his gun.

She did not appear affected at all; the chains at her wrists barely clinked with each steady footfall. He had a sense that she would quiet any such evidence that she had been captured. He had been the one to find her out. But not right away, a thought that always caused pain to radiate across his collarbone. With every passing hour since their return from the Other Side, her side (his side), there had been a growing tension like waiting for a rubber band to snap. Her hair had been a pull, her eyes had been a pull; she didn't like the taste of alcohol.

He had felt it and not been able to figure it out, a frustrating problem for a man of his usual mental agility. Even now in the way she tracked his proximity over her shoulder, her movement was different, off. Was She taller than Her? She stopped at a closed door; he used the door frame as a measuring stick. No, he concluded, she was shorter. The trembling in his hands stopped as he pushed the door open; the comparison had comforted him somehow.

Inside, the windows to his left let in the only light. The moon and the console of lights surrounding Astrid glinted off her curly hair as she moved from one screen to another. A tripod stood in the middle of the usually unused lab; dusty scrapes on the floor showed that boxes had been shoved against the filing cabinets on the opposite wall. The tripod's device, which looked somewhat like a camera, was oriented toward the bare inside wall to his right. Peter saw Astrid's eyes glance toward him, to the scientist at the tripod, and finally to the still woman beside him. The scientist did not look up, but Massive Dynamic's Executive Director certainly did, the moonlight burning her red hair in the corner of the room. The tall FBI agent next to her was silent, his dark skin all but allowing him to disappear in the shadows; they were a fascinating contrast.

Peter put a hand up in the direction of his prisoner as if that were enough to keep her where she stood, and walked over to Walter, the absent-minded professor. Before, in a stuttering fit of anxiety, Walter had explained the purpose of the device, and how they could use it to rescue Olivia from the Other Side. He had used it before, to retrieve and save his dying son, and however conflicted Peter felt about _that_ the parallel between the rescues gave him hope. If he had believed in any kind of grand design, he would think that there must be some kind of meaning or balance to be found in the creation of these windows.

That was the mission; create a window, and make a trade.

When the woman who seemed so much like Olivia had shown him the silent typewriter waiting in the pawnshop's back room, its call-and-answer reflected in an over-sized vanity mirror, he had not believed her. After all these months of seeing biology and technology spawn miracles and catastrophes he could not bear to think that everything hinged on this plunky machine. But it did. Everything. As he stood now beside Walter and with the tingling awareness signaling exactly where she stood, he knew that the trade arranged through that mirror would not occur like those words stuttering across the paper. Paradoxically, he felt emboldened by the predictability of just how dire the situation was. When had it ever been different?

Walter shuffled back a few steps before murmuring, "Son," hands in a familiar wringing gesture. Peter suspected he said it both out of habit and wanting, but he could not make eye contact, and he moved back to stand next to his prisoner. He knew that Walter would gesture to Astrid, could imagine the tension on Broyles' face and the severity of Nina Sharpe's, and did not need to hear the minute hand move to strike 9.

In one moment he was looking at a bare wall, and in the next the room seemingly doubled in size. A kind of glow dissipated like fog, and they were noticing those across the way even before their eyes had fully adjusted. It was not a reflection of this room and Peter wondered why he had been picturing it that way. If their room had physically crossed over they would be hanging 180 stories above the street. Now only their windows lit both rooms. She stiffened next to him and he saw with a surreal start that the figure closest to their side was her dead partner and lover John. And then Peter realized it was not John, just a very similar looking man whose feet were obviously straining to run across and rescue the brown-haired woman.

"Frank," she murmured.

Peter wondered where the Other Side's John was right then, when a light switched on in the other room and his eyes finally found Olivia. Olivia stood all the way to his left, Walter's device almost obscuring his line of sight. She looked thinner, but no less brave. Her hair was blond again at its roots, bangs long enough to be tucked behind her ears. Her hands were clasped in front of her; she was not bound. Her eyes fluttered up to meet his for a moment, then looked back down. Peter's eyes scanned the back of that room then, his jaw slightly falling as he spotted the Other Astrid, the Other Broyles. Standing imperiously in the middle of it all by his own device affixed to the top of an identical tripod, was the Secretary. Walternate. Peter's biological father. Another tingling of awareness radiated through his left side and he noticed that Walter had sidled up closer to him, fingers twitching as if to grab Peter's sleeve.

And there behind Olivia was the Machine, its great claws reaching down, reflected in the white tiles of the floor. There were the DNA-driven holds for each of his limbs, and large braided cables running straight into a huge distribution board set into the back wall. Walter's hands did grab Peter's sleeve then. Peter stepped forward until he was in front of the Secretary, but kept his prisoner in his periphery.

"Here she is. Your very own Olivia Dunham," he made a sardonic bow but the Secretary's eyes merely slid in her direction. His hands did not twitch.

"Thank you, Peter. Why don't you bring her over to us and we will see if she's been treated properly?"

All this time Olivia had been watching with a guarded expression but Peter saw her mouth quickly open as if to protest, and then close. The Other Olivia noticeably started as well.

"The trade is for them." He made his gesture nonchalant. This was, of course, not going to plan.

In every scenario that he imagined, he had given himself that inevitable choice: Would he cross over and risk this world to save Olivia? She had confessed to needing him, but if he confessed anything to himself it was that the reverse was also true. She had surprised him that night, both with her daring rescue and that admission, but it was more like uncovering what he already knew.

Yet regardless of how his arms twitched to touch her, there was no way he would cross over only to be strung up in a machine designed to destroy a universe. A chill had been in his abdomen since he had discovered the purpose of the technology and his role in it, and now the cold crept upward like heartburn.

"You know that will never happen."

The Secretary responded by smoothly mimicking his bow and motioned to the Other Broyles, who started toward Olivia. The tug-of-war appeared to have started, but Peter was not willing to play.

With a sudden move to his right he grasped the prisoner by the backs of her arms and growled, "Go home." And he shoved.

He was unsure what traveling through the window would do to her; he could not remember his childhood experience, and the Secretary had used a different method. Brown hair flying, she stumbled through, apparently safe as she crashed into Frank's arms. He was pulling her behind the jutted out wall of a closet before anyone else had the chance to react, other than the Other Broyles gripping Olivia firmly by the upper arms.

The Secretary had been mid-turn and he spun around, eyes ablaze with anger. Peter knew he had inherited that look; his eyes could radiate while his face remained impassive. He had not seen Walter make that face since before Saint Claire's; perhaps he could not. Peter made it now.

"The balance is off," he stated, a warning as much as an admission. "I'm never coming across, and someone," he tried not to put too much hope in the word," of the same mass must come back."

A slight squeak came from behind Peter but he was watching the Secretary lay his hand calmly atop the tripod, eyes back to their flat and inexpressive blue. Face suddenly twisting in an expression of haughty triumph that Peter had not once seen on Walter, the Secretary snarled with disdain, "This side is accustomed to inequality. I suppose now I have an extra agent and you get him."

Peter yearned to check Walter's reaction when suddenly the Secretary jerked his arm backward. Peter heard the squeak again. Then he knew nothing as the floor lurched under his feet and he stumbled backward, almost swiping through the legs of the tripod in the process. He vaguely saw Astrid disappear below the console with a screech and Nina and Broyles slide together toward the windows.

As if the building were splitting like a banana peel, the great glimmering window rose up as Peter struggled to maintain his position on what was quickly becoming a very steep incline. Peter looked down to see Walter with his back to the console, his legs stretched forward to steady the tripod. The soles of his shoes lightly squeaked with every tremble of the floor.

Peter realized that Walter had known exactly what the Secretary was trying to do, and had copied it. Only the window had not broken as the Secretary had wanted to surprise them with, and it had not moved in unison as Walter had planned. It was as if the window had taken their building up with it. Peter's suspicion was confirmed as he craned his head upward to see what was going on on the other side. Their floor was tipped too, but toward the window. Peter could see that the Other Astrid had disappeared behind that console as well, and Frank and the still-handcuffed woman were struggling with tangled limbs against the closet wall they had slid into and consequently, been saved by.

The rooms had not moved together and that floor now towered above Peter's head by at least 8 feet; a fall would not have ended well. Peter looked left and saw that the Secretary was using one hand to hold onto the console and the other to hold the tripod. He did not appear to know which was the better decision, to hold onto the tripod and see what would happen, or drop the tripod and hope for his originally intended result.

Some dust from the splitting walls was now clearing so that Peter could find Olivia; the Other Broyles was using a bookshelf nailed to the wall to keep himself from sliding down while trying to grab Olivia at the same time. She however, was using the incline to slide feet first toward the window. Peter spotted their own filing cabinets lining the wall to his left, also nailed to the wall.

"Olivia!" He shouted, gesturing toward the cabinets and haphazardly scrambling across the floor. He pointed at Walter.

"You hold it there! Hold it until I say!" and Walter's head bobbed up and down as he continued to warily stare at the Secretary.

Peter pulled out file drawers and clutching their sharp sides began to climb. If he could just reach her, help her through the window and down-

His head jerked up as he heard Olivia cry out in pain. An unseen rope tied around her ankle had snapped taut, pitching her head-first down the floor. She could not have known it was there; Olivia barely had time to throw out her arms before she hit with full force on her torso, and slid halfway through the window.

Dangling above the slice in the floor with arms outstretched, Peter could see that she was in pain. His eyes swung around to look at the Secretary, who had stopped his taunting gaze with Walter and was now staring triumphantly at Olivia. Peter finished climbing the cabinet and steadying himself with one hand on the wall, reached up toward her. Their hands were still a good three feet apart. Peter saw the rope straining against a desk that had slid partway into the console.

As if he had commanded it himself, the desk suddenly spun loose and tipped end over end through the window, crashing down to where Peter and his prisoner had stood. Olivia was released forward a few more feet and with a yelp, her hands landed in Peter's. Peter caught Olivia's eyes, scared and just the right shade of green, and gritted his teeth. Her head was shaking in frustration.

"I didn't see the rope. I don't know what it's made out of."

"The window?" Peter was staring at the shimmering line across her waist. "Does it hurt?" She shook her head again with the same expression he had seen every time she ignored her own pain.

"Can you cut the rope?"

The Secretary, his fore- and middle fingers casually switching back and forth on the leg of the tripod, laughed and called to them, "Nothing will cut that rope; it's made of woven steel with reflective coating."

"I'll come over and cut it," Peter started but Olivia dug her nails into his palms.

"Never." She looked at him with fondness and not a little anger. "Peter you will never come over here. Don't fall into his trap and don't you dare trade a universe for me."

He started to object when she stretched as close to him as possible, voice hopeful and steady. "You'll find a way and I'll be fine. Don't worry."

And there it was, that small smile he had seen at every precarious turn and appreciated and loved.

"I-, 'Livia, I-" With another lurch the floor started to fall into the building; a supporting structure below them must have been destroyed by their sudden upward action. Peter whipped his head back to see Astrid scramble over the console to help Walter catch the shuddering tripod, while Nina ran to help with the dials. Broyles allowed himself to be carried toward the filing cabinets, which he began to climb. The floor on the other side continued to tip towards their universe, Olivia's arms slackening as their bodies became level.

Peter's flaring hope that he might reach up and somehow untie the rope was extinguished when the Other Broyles snapped a switch on the console, and the rope around Olivia's ankle began to pull her up the incline.

"Peter, you'll figure it out," she said firmly. He grasped her tightly; soon only their fingers remained touching. He could not seem to exhale around his panic.

"'Livia I love you, sweetheart. I love you." He said with frantic breaths and she smiled, babbling over his words, "I love you Peter. I love you. I love you."

Their hands flailed in the air as they tried to reclaim their hold, but she was level with the Secretary now, teeth gritted in pain for her injured ankle. Peter balanced on the filing cabinet watching Olivia struggle against the rope and he knew then that she was right. He could figure it out.

Broyles barked out a sharp, "No!" as Peter tensed his legs and jumped from the swiftly descending universe onto the floor of his so-called home world. The window felt like passing through static.

He could see the absurd vision of Walter with his wool-footed dance along the carpet, then shocking him on the ear. It was then he knew that he had one father, and this man who was standing in front of him, looking as if he were in control even while clinging to a desk, was not him.

The rope pulling Olivia had stopped, and now being able to bend she was working away at the invisible bind. Peter reached into the waistband of his jeans and, while his arm swung up to point the gun at the Secretary, he murmured in a low voice, "We can find another way to fix this," he gestured toward the Machine. "Why can't both universes survive? Look at all of these scientists and resources. We can stabilize the windows; fix the imbalance. We can…" his voice died away when he saw the Secretary's reaction as he talked about the Machine.

Walternate looked excited; he was eager to use it, wanted to see the result and feel the power of obliterating an entire universe.

Peter's hand steadied; it had come to this. "Maybe not then. But I won't help you."

The Secretary smiled, "You wouldn't shoot your own father, Peter. I know you wouldn't."

Peter shook his head. "You're not my father." And he squeezed the trigger.


	2. Upended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's on the Other Side, which was *so* not the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this seems late in coming and I also apologize for its shortness. I only come up with this stuff when I'm falling asleep, so if I do fall asleep, well...who knows where it comes from or goes, right?
> 
> I still welcome reviews; enjoy!

_Peter reached into the waistband of his jeans and, while his arm swung up to point the gun at the Secretary, he murmured in a low voice, "We can find another way to fix this," he gestured toward the Machine. "Why can't both universes survive? Look at all of these scientists and resources. We can stabilize the windows; fix the imbalance. We can…" his voice died away when he saw the Secretary's reaction as he talked about the Machine. Walternate looked excited; he was eager to use it, wanted to see the result and feel the power of obliterating an entire universe. Peter's hand steadied; it had come to this._

_"Maybe not then. But I won't help you." The Secretary smiled, "You wouldn't shoot your own father, Peter. I know you wouldn't."_

_Peter shook his head. "You're not my father." And he squeezed the trigger._

Ch. 2 Upended _  
_

Peter was not breathing heavily even while wobbily balancing on the crooked floor, left hand gripping the bookshelf at his back. His gun was still raised in the air.

Olivia was staring at him, the Other Astrid and the Other Broyles were behind the console aiming guns at him, and Frank and the Other Olivia were glaring at him, a bullet implanted in the wall inches from her face. The Secretary stood still with an expression of mock embarrassment, chuckling slightly as he began to speak.

Peter shook his head, "I didn't miss. But that was the only warning shot you'll get."

Both the Secretary and the Other Broyles raised their eyebrows in surprise.

Peter continued through gritted teeth, "What I want is for you to come back to the other side with me. Walter is a genius but he's...having a hard time. I think you and he can fix this together, and I think you do want to fix it, despite the power of that machine." He shrugged. "I didn't kill you for that reason, and that reason only. And I'm not really asking."

The Secretary had openly scoffed as Peter was speaking and looked unafraid even now. He nodded toward his hand that still held the device.

"What if I had dropped it?" he asked, eyes glittering. "What if when you had fired your gun, I had startled at my impending death and let the tripod slip right through my fingers?"

In a guarded tone Peter asked, "Yeah? And what would have happened if you did?"

The Secretary smiled and resumed his game of alternating his fore- and middle fingers on the leg of the tripod. Then Peter watched, as if in slow motion, the Secretary turn his back to the device and calmly set both free hands on the surface of the console.

As quickly as Peter had his gun back into the waistband of his jeans the floor had once again pitched toward the great window, this time so quickly that the Secretary truly was surprised by the result of his plan. His Other agents had milliseconds to grab his arms in his slippery suit sleeves, his feet suddenly dangling. Peter braced his foot on the bookshelf, saw Olivia using the steel rope's loop as a toehold as she shakily flattened herself against the floor, and was about to call it a day when suddenly Frank slid toward the tripod. His right hand painfully clung to one shackle of the handcuffs; the Other Olivia's hand clung to the other.

They all watched as the tripod fell toward the glimmering window. There was no noise announcing their separation from the rest of the building and Peter wondered if the entire universe could go down like the Titanic. The other side truly did look like a reflection now; the grade-school image of making ink butterflies by squeezing folded paper flashed through his mind.

All this time, sounds had seemed dull and deadened in the lab, until Frank's hand making contact with the tripod's metal leg resounded throughout the room. All but the Secretary let out exhalations of relief.

Olivia's hands clung to the invisible rope near her face as she shook her head at the Secretary in disbelief and anger.

"What could you possibly be thinking? Is your thirst for destruction so enormous that you would risk yourself, not to mention the entire universe?"

Peter could tell by her voice that she was not only angry, but immensely sad. The Secretary continued to struggle as the Other Broyles encouraged him over the console. Peter lifted a hand in Frank's direction.

"Are you okay? Do you got it?" When Frank nodded he turned back to the Secretary, wondering how in the hell he could possibly do as promised and come up with a damn solution. At that moment the Other Astrid caught his eye and mouthed, "The desk."

Earlier, when Olivia had dangled from this universe above him, the desk restraining her rope had suddenly spun and toppled through the window, releasing her far enough to grab his hands. The floor had stopped moving, so why had the desk moved? Peter shook his head in confusion until it struck him.

The Other Astrid's eyes glanced at Peter, then Olivia, and finally to the Secretary. With more strength than was usually credited to the petite Seer, she yanked the Secretary's arm to the side and then let go. His body's reaction was wilder than Broyles could compensate for and he let go as well. With a scream of frustration the Secretary fell past Frank and the tripod, and disappeared through the window.


	3. Teeter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapters are going to be short. I can't seem to decide what I want to reveal and when I want to reveal it. But, getting closer to the sexytimes. Enjoy!

_The Other Astrid's eyes glanced at Peter, then Olivia, and finally at the Secretary. With more strength than was usually credited to the petite Seer, she yanked the Secretary's arm to the side and then let go. His body's reaction was wilder than Broyles could compensate for, and he let go as well. With a scream of frustration the Secretary fell past John and the tripod and disappeared through the window._

Ch. 3 Teeter

Peter steadied himself on his new perch on top of (or was he on its side?) the bookshelf and glanced cautiously from one person to another. The room was full of stunned silence.

The Secretary's yell had barely faded when the Other Broyles had seized his partner by the upper arms; he shuffled hesitantly on the new "floor", what had previously been the inside wall of the console.

The Other Astrid smiled with a sad, secret knowledge and Peter almost felt frustration on behalf of Broyles.

She licked her lips and said calmly, "He kills us all. I saw it."

With widened eyes, white showing all around the dark pupils, Broyles said roughly, "You have just thrown the _Secretary_ into another universe."

Astrid nodded slowly. "I know, Phillip."

There was a surprisingly fatherly expression on his face when the Other Broyles exhaled slowly through his nose and let go of the Other Astrid. His resigned gaze swung calmly down to Frank, who was bouncing slightly against the floor as his arms twisted between holding the handcuff and gripping the tripod. Without announcement, Broyles leaned across Astrid and delicately placed his hand on the floor and slid it backwards until he could then feel and hold the rope from which Olivia still precariously dangled. He dragged it closer, guiding her to the console. With no options for escape, she settled for hurriedly gripping the console and pushing the rope the rest of the way to him, then perching on the edge with all the wariness of a panther. Ignoring her, Broyles flipped the rope's release switch until it was long enough for Frank to grab onto, then reversed the pull. The Other Olivia let out a relieved gasp as she eased off of her aching hip bones and tossed the handcuffs behind her.

Here the next decision seemed too difficult for any of them to make. The console was getting crowded, especially as everyone kept their distance from the tripod once it was stably propped against the inside wall, still facing the window.

Finally the Other Olivia, stranded on her closet wall-island, called over. "Agent Farnsworth, what did you see?"

Every head turned toward the Agent. The Other Astrid humbly nodded, a gesture Peter and Olivia had seen hundreds of times on their own Astrid.

She explained, "I saw predictive data accumulate such that only one conclusion would come about in our world, with our people. By removing the linchpin of that data I have hopefully given each universe additional, happier options."

The Other Olivia, Frank, and the Other Broyles all shifted uncomfortably, but no one questioned the explanation. Peter glanced down through the window. He saw dark shapes, presumably the tops of people's heads, moving across the collapsed floor but could not tell who was who. He looked back toward the console; he felt like lunging at them all.

"What are you talking about?" he asked angrily. The natives looked at him with obvious condescension; Olivia seemed irritated by the interruption. Had she gotten so accustomed to this world? The Other Astrid held out her hands toward him, palms pressed didactically together.

"Peter Bishop, I had to do something about what I had seen. After I could predict-" Peter's right hand shot into the air as if twisting an unseen dial, cutting her off. He never had all the intel he needed, never.

"Predicted how?"

"That is what I do here, Peter. A kind of risk assessment. By watching data streams that come from different instruments positioned in our cities I can sense predictable behaviors and conditions. I was treated with a – I think you call it cortexiphan?"

Peter's eyes darted toward Olivia but she seemed unsurprised, almost impatient. He would have given anything to be alone with her.

With an angry set to his jaw and a quick exhalation through gritted teeth he lowered his hands to steady himself on the bookshelf.

"Well, do you see Olivia and I leaving?" he asked, a patronizing emphasis on the word "see", and every head turned toward her once again.

"Yes," she said simply, her curls slightly vibrating.


	4. Suspend

_"That's what I do here Peter. A kind of risk assessment. By watching data streams that come from different instruments positioned in our cities I can sense predictable behaviors and conditions. I was treated with a – I think you call it cortexiphan?"_

_Peter's eyes darted toward Olivia but she seemed unsurprised, almost impatient. He would have given anything to be alone with her._

_With an angry set to his jaw and a quick exhalation through gritted teeth he lowered his hands to steady himself on the bookshelf._

_"Well, do you see Olivia and I leaving?" he asked, a patronizing emphasis on the word "see", and every head turned toward her once again._

_"Yes," she said simply, her curls slightly vibrating._

 

Ch. 4 Suspend _  
_

Peter watched silently as the island of people discussed how exactly to throw an invisible rope to him. He rolled his eyes as general G-man overload threatened to strand him in the Other World forever.

"Broken universe here, okay?" he growled and, hastily unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it across to Astrid, said sarcastically, "Wrap it in the shirt. I'm pretty sure I can see a shirt." His stern look faded a little when he saw the Other Olivia look at him approvingly and his Olivia tensely biting her lip. He shrugged awkwardly in his white undershirt, pretending to be cold.

The Other Astrid slid his shirt down the rope to settle above the loop, and with the calmness of a pendulum she swung it toward him. Peter waited until the Other Broyles had retracted the rope until the loop was even with his foot and then stepped into it, wobbly and tense as he gradually slid back toward the console. Olivia sat on the edge of the console and put her left foot on top of his right, then wrapped herself around him. Peter knew that this was no time for a joyous reunion but her averted eyes and rigid body was not a good sign. He allowed himself a confused moment before admitting to himself, yes, she was angry. At him.

They looked at those still standing on the upended console. When Peter had asked what they would do in the topsy-turvy universe Astrid had only smiled and said they would use the rope to get out. Once again the Others did not question her.

Now the Other Olivia leaned forward, elbow jauntily propped on her knee as she said in her rough voice, "Since we'll need the Secretary back, even if it's to incarcerate him, let's set up a meeting time. A week from now okay?" Her mouth was upturned in one corner, to the left. Peter's eyes turned kind, thankful for her unknown gift; his Olivia smiled to her right.

"A week from now," he nodded. "I don't know what happened when he fell through though." The four shifted uncomfortably so he tightened his grip on the rope, looked at Astrid with a deep breath and murmured a thanks. Olivia didn't look at any of them. The Other Broyles had reached forward to release the rope when the Other Olivia leaned forward again, her face floating to the side of the real Olivia's, making him see double.

"Peter, thanks for getting me home." She smiled to her left. "You weren't so bad, for the Secretary's son."

* * *

 

Peter could not help but lean farther into Olivia, eyes squeezed shut, as they descended through the glimmering window. There was no vision of Walter conjuring static this time, just the unsettling feeling that he was connected to a car battery. He shook his head and opened his eyes to be greeted by Olivia's. With a large sigh she put her forehead on his shoulder, her fingers slightly loosening on this back.

They were being lowered into a crime scene, small floodlights illuminating the wreckage and various shouts echoing across the area. The lab had been destroyed; the floor had fallen into the building, crushing the supporting wall it had separated from earlier. Dusty tracks in the floor showed the quick migration of the filing cabinets to the lower floor; awkwardly bent nails dangled from where they once had been fixed to the wall.

The console had remained and dawnlight gleamed on the silver legs of the tripod. A makeshift, Walter-like collection of books and duct tape now secured the tripod and device to the console, angled toward the ceiling, an island with a strange lighthouse.

Peter looked below their feet and leaned quickly back. Just in time, they swung away from an unsuspecting paramedic who, after hearing Peter shout, flattened herself atop her patient.

"Son!" came Walter's yelp. The old man picked his way up the incline, a wild grin spreading across his face, shoulders bouncing with every step. His sweater was covered in dust and he obliviously dropped the Capri Sun he had been drinking. Peter and Olivia touched down and let go of the rope as Walter tackled them both, fingertips probing elbows and the backs of heads for injury. Astrid had hurried up behind him, along with Nina Sharpe, and she flung herself around Olivia. Nina grabbed Olivia's wrist and squeezed with her prosthetic grip.

"Tell us who you are," she demanded. Astrid, in a daring move, swatted her hand away.

"Of course, of course," she said breathlessly, "This is Olivia, it is. Just look at her." Nina stepped back hesitantly, her eyes poring over Olivia's hair and face. Olivia raised her eyebrows and smiled wryly.

"Really Ms. Sharpe? I'd have thought you'd remember such a thorn in your side." Olivia's smile was a little shy. Nina's eyes brightened by a fraction and she acquiesced. "Of course Agent Farnsworth. This is Olivia Dunham." Her red lips curved up slightly. "Our Olivia Dunham."

Peter, who had been alternately hugging Walter and unwinding his tentacle-like grip, echoed Nina. "Of course." His face was neutral but his eyes were intense. But Olivia matter-of-factly turned away and, seeing Broyles stride up the incline trailing paramedics, started down into the building.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews please! :) Am I capturing characters well enough? I like to think that I have some of Peter's traits down, but then, I spend many an episode observing only him. ;)


	5. Bump

Peter was not paying attention as Walter began tugging on his sleeve. He watched Olivia accept Broyles' assistance as she limped down the incline toward a paramedic.

"I'm sorry Walter, what?" Peter shook his head clear and turned toward his father and Astrid. Walter was on edge. He raised both hands in his classic explanatory gesture, as if he were holding the two ends of a taut piece of string, and began speaking in his suspenseful tones.

"We kept the device pointing up, toward you Peter, and hoped... But then, Walternate. He fell in here from the great window and-." Peter raised his head and looked around quickly.

"Where is he? I saw him fall."  He cast a strange glance at Astrid. "The Other Astrid dropped him on purpose."

The agent and his father looked at each other in surprise but Peter just folded his arms across his chest. He was too tired to elaborate on something he really did not understand himself. Walter pointed backward to where the paramedic, the same as Peter and Olivia had almost landed on, was pulling a blanket over his patient and tucking in the edges. An agent next to him was keeping a safe distance from the gurney and was busy talking on a radio.

"He fell on his back; it's broken," Astrid explained. "He's stable, but the FBI is afraid that the Other side will come looking for him. They're going to transfer him to a secure hospital in Boston."

Walter asked, "Should I go to the lab, son? We will need, or rather, I should adjust-" He trailed off helplessly, unsure of what to do with Peter's lack of status updates. But although he was feeling frustrated with all they had left to do, Peter's smile was kind.

"Yes, Walter. We'll go back to the lab and finish the work to close the tear. Astrid, are you driving back?" She nodded, and took one of Walter's hands.

Broyles had joined them, and so Peter diligently reported the meeting he had set up with the Other Fringe Division. The paramedics were now slowly carrying The Secretary down the incline; his grim face looked so much like Walter's, and Peter slipped his hand into his father's. He caught Astrid looking at him with undisguised pleasure, but Peter still felt numb to the situation...except for the tingling at his back where he wondered if Olivia was staring daggers at him.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter watched the lights from streetlamps and neon signs slide over the white column of Olivia's throat as Astrid drove the four of them back to Boston. Walter and Peter were in the backseat, Walter's snoring head thrown back against the headrest, Peter's right hand tightly clenched in his own. Olivia was staring out the window, feeling absurdly alert, and ashamed, as she waited for zeppelins to drift through the night sky. Peter watched as every few minutes she unconsciously shook her head as if to clear it.

When Peter had climbed into the SUV behind Walter she had not acknowledged him. He knew he was intruding on her space; if he had learned anything about Olivia it was that she would go to ground in her own mind before facing an unwelcome emotion. But then he would think of what was waiting for her at her apartment and knew he had to talk to her before she went through the door expecting home.

The trigger was just a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen trash. Plenty of people throw out alcohol, but usually not full bottles with a red bow tied around the neck and a card reading "Welcome home, dear - Walter". And Peter had stared at that trash can, the heavy weight of betrayal settling on his shoulders, as he realized that Olivia, no not Olivia, was in fact  _not_ Olivia. Since they had reached the comfortable point where he didn't knock on her front door anymore, Olivia (not Olivia!) did not notice him behind her as she shifted the saucepan back and forth on the stove, her feet alternately tapping to U2.

"I thought you loved whiskey," he said, a little too loudly, startling her. She whipped around, her false blond hair fanning out. Peter saw panic register on her face for a millisecond before a coy smile replaced it and she slid toward him, smoothly picking the bottle out of the trash.

"Mistake," she uttered simply. "Want some?" Her tone was suggestive. Peter fought to remain calm and forced a casual smile.

"Sure. I'm pretty thirsty," he said, and went to sit on the couch. She moved the saucepan from the burner, grabbed two glasses, and stood on the other side of the coffee table as she poured. She handed him his whiskey and then stood still, watching him as he did not drink. With a begrudging smile she tipped her head back and emptied the glass, her eyes widening as the liquid burned its way down her throat. Peter had watched as similar eyes had brightened at the same taste. He drew his cell phone out of his pocket and started toward the bedroom.

"I just remembered that Walter told me to get pumpkin pie for dessert. I should tell him he's gonna have to wait." Peter had raised the phone to his ear when a harsh blow shoved him into the door frame; his phone skittered under the dresser, Broyle's number blinking on the screen.

Peter shoved himself back at Olivia's doppelganger, managing to knock her down. She quickly leaned forward and yanked his leg out from under him. Peter crashed heavily into the coffee table with a grunt, sending the whiskey glasses flying. Whiskey spilled across the carpet as she darted for her gun on the hall table. She yanked it from her jacket pocket and spun around when Peter kicked it from her hand. He turned aside as she lunged at him, pulling her arms behind her back and pinning her to the ground. She panted as she struggled to get out of his grip but he grimly shook his head even though she could not see him.

"You didn't have to do this," he said, and reached into her back pocket for her cell phone. Broyles was going to explode.

 

Now, as Peter counted down the miles toward Boston, he rehearsed how he would tell Olivia the truth. That no matter of a rescue or love could outweigh the fact that he had not known she was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter leaned forward in his seat as Astrid slowed to a stop in front of Olivia's building.

"Will you take Walter home?" he asked hurriedly, already opening his door.

Astrid gave him a sad glance. "Are you going to tell her?"

Peter said nothing, just slid his hand from Walter's and hopped out of the car.

He was lucky that Olivia was slowed by her injury. Her shoulders rose as she sensed his proximity; she used climbing the stoop to stand above him.

"Peter, I really think you should go home with Walter-" Peter cut her off, his voice pained. 

"Olivia, please. I have to talk to you before you go in there. She left it-"  Olivia shook her head insistently. She spoke in strained tones. 

"No. Stop. I don't want to hear about her, or what she did, or any of it." She drew in a breath that did not make it past her throat.

"Olivia," he urged, "I caught her here. Your living room is a mess." He suddenly scoffed at himself. "Jesus Olivia, there's been a pan of beef in your sink for a week. Let me sort it out." Olivia stared at him, biting her lip as if to stop whatever emotion threatened to show itself.

"You caught her in my apartment?" He nodded. Her hands were flexing on the crutches' grips. "You realized who she was when you were in my house together? Not at work, not-" Olivia looked down at her feet, then trained shining green eyes on him.

"You had a relationship with her."

The statement froze in the air between them. Peter resisted any self-preservation instincts that might get him out of hot water. Olivia meant more to him, everything to him, for him to work her over like a con.

"I did. I thought she was you." And although Olivia's stance had been wary and rigid, like she knew a blow was coming, Peter watched a complete change take over her body. The slight tensing of her fists, her chin rising slightly; she was wounded.  
The power of his words was intoxicating. He felt dizzy with their effect on her, and what he would not give to exchange equal amounts of happiness for her present pain.

Olivia let out a stuttered breath. "Did you-?" she ran out of air before finishing the question, and shook her head fervently as Peter started to answer. He leaned forward and gripped her crutches, right below where she white-knuckled the handles.

"'Olivia, I need you to know how sick this makes me feel. How I know I've betrayed you." He gritted his teeth in anger. "And I sensed it too, beneath every one of her manipulative comments, that she wasn't you. I felt the loss of you. I still do." Peter looked down at his feet, then up at her with a tormented gaze. "And nothing makes me feel so ashamed as it took a stupid whiskey bottle in the kitchen trash."

Olivia pulled backwards until Peter let go of her crutches. She said angrily, "I really don't know what I'm supposed to say to this, Peter. And to make things worse, I'm pretty sure there's no one to ask about this little situation."

She looked skyward for a moment, and then while turning to the door, she said emphatically, "I'm drinking the whiskey."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done! :)


	6. Peak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A "resolution", if you will. ;)

_"'Olivia, I need you to know how sick this makes me feel. How I know I've betrayed you." He gritted his teeth in anger. "And I sensed it too, beneath every one of her manipulative comments, that she wasn't you. I felt the loss of you. I still do." Peter looked down at his feet, then up at her with a tormented gaze. "And nothing makes me feel so ashamed as it took a stupid whiskey bottle in the kitchen trash."_

_Olivia pulled backwards until Peter let go of her crutches. She said angrily, "I really don't know what I'm supposed to say to this, Peter. And to make things worse, I'm pretty sure there's no one to ask about this little situation."_

_She looked skyward for a moment, and then while turning to the door, she said emphatically, "I'm drinking the whiskey."_

* * *

 

Ch. 6 Peak

Peter's heart was threatening to squeeze its way up his throat, out of his chest, through his stomach; whatever it was trying to do it didn't want to be near him. His left hand gripped the wrought-iron railing until a normal person would have cringed, but Peter did not notice. He stared at the ground, jaw working as he tried to ride out the pain, pins prickling at his eyes. He had agonized over telling Olivia the horrible truth, knew that he would be broken if she denied him, but this, oh this was worse than losing Walter. Because, he knew that his father, in the way parents love their children unconditionally and forever, would never choose to leave him. Olivia had that choice. Peter rose his head to call her name.

The door was open. Olivia had left the door open. She expected him to follow her.

She wasn't done with him yet.

Peter flew up the stairs and halted in her doorway, where her crutches were propped against the hall table. The living room was dark but he heard the noise of splashing water in the kitchen. He hung his head as he realized she was probably cleaning out the pan of spoiled beef, and when he looked up she was standing in the door between the kitchen and living room, staring at the space as if trying to imagine a scenario there.

Her eyes trailed over the askew coffee table to the two empty glasses, frozen on the floor since they had been sent flying. Peter figured she must have noticed the crooked picture next to her bedroom door, seen there had been a struggle. Did she wish there was more wreckage, more evidence of his anger?

He watched as she limped over to the coffee table and, in the same motion, straightened it and swooped up the whiskey bottle. Ignoring the glasses, Olivia spun off the top and took a long pull. His heart leapt as, even in the darkness, Peter saw her relish the taste. She rubbed her ace-bandaged foot over the rug and said wryly, "I guess she won't be paying to clean this." Olivia took another drink. "And to think I did all of her laundry."

Peter moved forward to pick up the glasses and set them on the coffee table. He knew that looking her in the eye, supposedly telegraphing honesty, would only make her think of his con-man days. But he wanted her to see.

"Olivia, I've never been so sorry." He heard the sounds of swishing liquid again; saw the glow from the streetlights slide over the glass bottle as she raised it again. He startled at her next words; she sounded as cynical and gruff as her alter-ego.

"Yeah, Peter. I know you are."

He raised beseeching hands in her direction, his voice insistent, "She was never it for me, never what I'd been expecting, nothing at all what I'd loved about getting to know you." He swept his arms to the side.

"The night that all this happened I was coming to talk to her, about just ending it all, just working together. Even though I didn't understand why, I couldn't see it. I couldn't see us. I wish I'd known that was the sign.

"But I wasn't in love with her." Peter felt the pain in his chest condense into a hot point, and he sank quickly to the couch, head in his hands.

"I'm in love with you."

There was a long moment while Peter dug his palms into his forehead, waiting. He heard the bottle being set down on the coffee table, and then from directly in front of him, he heard her say, "You haven't even welcomed me home."

 

* * *

Peter looked up to find Olivia standing against his knees. His eyes rose to search her face, but her expression was covered half in darkness. How could he welcome her? How could he show her? Because you couldn't just trust what Peter Bishop said.

Slowly, silently, he slid forward on the couch, his knees on the outside of her legs, his jeans skimming her pants. He wrapped his fingers around her hand, the pads of his fingertips gliding across her palms. This close to her he could smell the dust on her clothes from the torn up lab in Massive Dynamic; it feels seconds ago and eons ago. He can also smell laundry detergent but it's not familiar, just slightly wrong. He wanted it gone; it was from there and she was from here. Turning her wrist to his lips, he paused. 

"Your eyes light up when you taste good whiskey." Peter's lips moved against her skin as he spoke. He swore he felt her skin get warmer in response, and kept going.

"You like your job in part because it lets you get emotional, when you can't be for yourself." He nosed at her sleeve, pushed it higher to brush his lips to her skin again, felt her pulse beating rapidly. Need grew to fill his chest and he took a deep breath.

"You give people their space, but it's not for them." The hand he wasn't holding alighted on his shoulder, and he smiled with his exhale.

"You hesitate with your smile, except for with three people." Peter pressed his own smile into her wrist. "I'm not one of them."

"Peter." 

He looked up at her again, saw that her expression was just a little more open now. He gave her that look that suggested he was shrugging it off, whatever ache or slight it could be.

"It's Rachel and Ella, and Charlie," he told her, but she shook her head dismissively, her heart suddenly clenching with grief. That wasn't why she had said his name, not to be reminded. But he'd proven something. Her fingers tightened on his coat. Peter silently let her process what he had said, what he had done, what he had shown her, hoping she would let him continue. Suddenly, a thought sprung to his mind.

"Why are you standing? How's your ankle?" his hand went unthinkingly to her foot and a startled laugh burst from Olivia's mouth.

In an instant he had surged up to hold her just as she dropped to hug him. They fell together onto the couch; Olivia leaned away from her injured ankle and Peter enjoyed the rasp of her jacket on his as her arms slid around his neck. Olivia's breath caressed his ear; she was panting as if she had run all the way from the Other Side. Peter buried his face in her neck, under her hair. Now, she smelled exactly right.

  
After a few minutes Olivia leaned back in his lap, eyes closed. Peter brought his hands to her face, thumbs brushing along her cheeks, grazing her eyelashes. Her hands gripped his shoulders as her breathing evened. When her eyes opened and Peter saw each golden freckle oriented just so among her green irises, a contented smile appeared on his face.

"There you are." And he sounded certain.

Olivia smiled crookedly to her right, and tilted her head shyly to the side. "You know, I saw you over there," she confessed. Peter's brow furrowed. "Even when I thought I was her, you were there for me to talk to." Olivia's thumb began moving slowly back and forth on Peter's neck; he felt his own pulse quicken under her fingertip. He managed to stutter, "Did it help?" She nodded. His hands slowly descended from her back to her hips and she smiled again, slightly biting her lower lip. Peter's fingers reflexively pressed deeper into her skin and she wiggled a little in anticipation.

"God I've missed you," he growled, and pulled her toward him. Olivia's eyes didn't leave his until the last second. His blood surged southward when their lips met, leaving him wonderfully lightheaded. He felt his nerves fire where her thumbnails grazed his jaw; she moaned when he licked the sensitive area behind her front teeth. It seemed impossible to touch enough of her skin; his fingers were splayed across her ribcage beneath her shirt, reveling in the movements of her muscles. She quickly pulled her jacket off and the shirt over her head, hair billowing around her shoulders, and he felt the goosebumps spread across her torso. He moved to wrap her tighter, keep her warm, but she fought his arms as she worked the buttons on his shirt, unceremoniously scraping his coat from his shoulders, and tossing them into the darkness. He caught glimpses of her pale arms and parted lips as she slid her hands up his arms onto his shoulders, her fingernails teasing the skin right at the edge of his undershirt.

But Olivia's hands stilled completely when he moved to kiss the pulse point on her neck; she began chanting his name like a mantra, "Peter, Peter, Peter," over and over again. He held her bra straps halfway down her arms, his plan interrupted when he had kissed along her collarbone, dragging his teeth up to her shoulder. Olivia trembled joyously and his bite became a grin.

Suddenly she stood, balancing on one leg, and undid the button and zipper at the top of her pants. When she stopped, he gave her a worried look, but Olivia only smiled suggestively, her eyes waiting for him to understand. Peter chuckled, the familiar, long-missed sound making her grin, and his own long fingers curled around the waistband of her pants and underwear both.  
He started tugging them down, leaned forward to kiss her hipbone, reveling in her shudder. Then, with another chuckle, he leaned back against the couch. Her eyes, which she didn't remember closing, flew open in protest.   
But he was only peeling off his undershirt. She abandoned her earlier plan, catching his lips the second the fabric was over his head. She shimmied the rest of the way out of her clothing and started to straddle him.

"I was getting to that," he hummed against her mouth, his hands coming up to stop her hips. Olivia paused, looking a little irked, her arms straight as she leaned her hands onto the couch on either side of Peter's head. His hands skimmed down the outside of her thighs and her expression became more contented. Then he ran his hands up her side and her elbows bent a little. His fingers arrived at the clasp of her bra. "I get this."

Olivia leaned a knee next to one of his legs to let him pull the bra off her arms; it joined the rest of her clothes on the floor. Then even in the half-light he could see her look pointedly at his belt.

"I don't care who gets that, but someone should."

His laugh answered her and he tilted his head over to kiss her forearm as he lifted his hips to slide the jeans off his body. Their movements became frenzied; Olivia straddling him finally, enjoying the feel of her legs over his, that her natural high kept her ankle from hurting. Then, their bodies flush against each other, the feel of her breasts and damp curls against him sent a jolt to Peter's toes. She had moved her hands to curl at the back of his head, could feel her fingertips aching with referred yearning from other places, and Peter repaid her in kind, his thumbnails grazing the undersides of her breasts. Olivia arched her back in response, her nails digging into his neck for a tingling sort of pain. Peter leaned forward to kiss between her breasts, letting his flattened palms move across her nipples, agonizingly slow. She suddenly leaned forward against him, whispering, "Now. You've been haunting me, Peter, and I want you right now."

He gasped back, excited, relieved, "Yes, 'Livia, yes."

Neither of them had expected to fit quite so well together, but there it was, each of them panting as he filled her completely, their foreheads and noses pressed together as she lowered herself. Peter's hands trembled as he brought them lightly up to her breasts again. Olivia leaned back to put her hands on his knees as they moved together, but after a few seconds his hands gripped her hips, "Come back."

Olivia, bowing like a tree, let herself be carried back against Peter's chest, her left check pressed against his, as she whispered a new mantra in his ear, "Of course, of course, of course."

Breathing faster as the glorious friction of their movements brought them closer to the brink, Peter held Olivia's green-eyed gaze. His hand were on her hips, helping her, keeping her from leaning on her leg. When she whimpered at not being able to go faster, he moved a hand to her center to help her further. and she cried out at the final moment, her cheek pressed against his. Peter's fingertips dug into the sweat-slicked skin at her lower back and he pressed his lips to the pulse point on Olivia's neck, the frantic beating only making him meet her that much faster. Olivia's gasps shuddered with her entire body as she felt powerful waves of pleasure that crashed against the boundaries of her skin, returning to settle heavily inside her. She pressed herself closer to Peter's chest, delicately kissing the red nail marks on his shoulders.

As their sweat began to cool, as this world became more deliciously real, Olivia lazily sat back until she could look at his face, her fingers gliding along his jawline. She laughed slightly at his contented expression.

"It was never like that," she said certainly as her index finger traced his bottom lip. Peter shook his head.

"Never. That was the first time," he looked at her directly, hoping the sudden sheen in her eyes meant she believed him. Olivia leaned forward to capture his lips hungrily with hers and curled her fingers against the hair on his chest.

Peter raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Oh really, sweetheart? You ready for another?" Olivia grinned and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, her hand already moving further down his chest, "Call me sweetheart one more time; I'd really like that."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow that was fun! I couldn't stop listening to Liz Durrett's version of Cat Stevens' "How Can I Tell You?" so you may see that influence. And, of course, the show ends up differently than we imagine, but it's sure nice to imagine it all the same. 
> 
> Please leave kudos or comments if you enjoyed!


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